The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow, Yet Leonard tarries long. Now all whom varied toil and care From home and love divide,...
Young men will love thee more fair and more fast; Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? Old men's love the longest will last, And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing. ...
Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die...
Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me, At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, 'lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home....
There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. A stranger commanded '- it sunk on the land, It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand! ...
Tho' right be aft put down by strength, As mony a day we saw that, The true and leilfu' cause at length Shall bear the grie for a' that. For a' that an a' that, Guns, guillotines, and a' that,...
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil! Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war-array, Gentles and commons. ...
Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending....
I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied....
Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; 'Tis to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up, And avaunt ye, base carles! Were there death in the cup,...
Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here With hawk and horse and hunting-spear, Hounds are in their couples yelling,...
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land!' Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd As home his footsteps he hath turn'd...